It’s Fashion Week. And the enormous tent at Bry ant Park is crammed, elbow to navel to kneecap, with oppressively tall girls feeling fat in size zero, visually impaired boys in plaid and chartreuse, and hyperventilating Z-list actors willing to brave clogged Port-a-Potties to get next to Anna Wintour. And those are the waiters. The crowd, you don’t want to know.

Curiosity and an empty closet brought me to the park’s first — and last — days of fashion. Next year, the invitation-only tent that has graced this space for 18 spring and fall seasons, bringing haute couture to a city that now welcomes JCPenney and Kmart, is moving on up to Lincoln Center. There, presumably, Muffie is eager to plunk down 20 grand for a prom dress.

But I would venture fashion moved out of this city, where paying retail is a sin and factories bail to China as fast as you can say “Max Azria,” a long time ago. Most busy women I know shop online, or zip into Banana Republic at lunch.

That didn’t stop the Fashion Creatures, an underemployed bunch heavy with refugees from every reality show gracing the high numbers on your cable dial. These pass for celebs.

Walking to the park, my eyes were assaulted by a man in a too-large bowler hat, plaid pants and Elvis Costello glasses. I was about to direct him to the Big Apple Circus. Or the homeless shelter. Then he said he had some connection to the reality show “Lose My Lunch.” Or maybe “Launch My Line.”

“I’m just a dandy,” he said, as serious as a size-14 model.

Another man was resplendent in a full-length, pure-white, PETA-defying fur coat. Sable?

“Raccoon,” he said. “It’s kind of like in the long-hair family,” said the stylist for the seminal “Real Housewives of Atlanta.”

To say Fashion Week has jumped the shark is an insult to aquatic animals. Let’s just say that many designers have fled the tent, leaving geeks you wouldn’t sit next to in high school partying like it’s 1993.

The shows. Right. There are three tiers of human at every fashion show. First, The Celebs.

“Oh, my God!” squealed a pretty girl, who looked 14, as a tall blonde sailed into the show ahead of the crowd. “That’s Whitney Port!” I asked stupidly, “Is she a designer?” The girl looked at me as if I’d grown additional heads. “No, she’s in a reality show — on MTV!”

Next are Ticket Holders. That would include me. Possession of an actual ticket — scrawled in pen, in this age of metal detectors and DNA samples — lets you stand on the short line.

Then, there are The Dregs. These losers wait, for hours, hoping for a seat to pop up at a show selling clothes they’ll never afford.

I’m here to see the Fall 2011 collection of Ports 1961, which deals in safe get-ups in colors like “licorice” and “pepper.” (Black and white, imbecile.) Protein-deprived models in teased, Bride of Frankenstein hair flounced down the catwalk as I resisted the urge to dig out a sandwich. Ports’ cunning “cherry” dress, I learned, retails for nearly $600. Not bad. I made a mental note to visit the Gap.

Several glasses of Moet and foie gras appetizers later — up yours, PETA! — I started to miss Bryant Park.

Fashion ain’t what it used to be. Was it ever?

Baldwin’s unhinged

Message to Alec Baldwin: Your daughter may look like an adult and act like an adult, but she is 14. A child.

What’s your excuse?

The actor would have you believe that young Ireland Baldwin has, yet again, turned Daddy Dearest into a fuming, threatening, bloviating creature. Last week, the lead performers in the Baldwin family circus got into a red-hot argument on the phone, prompting Baldwin, allegedly, to tell the fruit of his loins, “I’m tired of this. I’m going to take some pills. I’m going to end this.”

Whatever happened to, “Go to your room?”

A panicked Ireland dialed 911. Dragged from his Central Park West apartment to Lenox Hill Hospital, Baldwin was deemed a drama queen, not suicidal. Now Ireland is to be scarred forever by her depraved dad’s theatrics, including the night in 2007 when he threatened and called the then-11-year-old a “thoughtless little pig.”

Once again, Baldwin blames not himself, but ex-wife Kim Basinger, telling pals she wanted to embarrass him in advance of his Oscar-hosting duties by persuading Ireland to call 911. Not a thought as to what the barrage of curses aimed at the mother of his child would do to the kid.

Baldwin doesn’t need the Oscars. He needs his head examined. And a restraining order.

Just walk like a man, Hiram

I FEAR a bulldozer won’t be enough to dislodge Hiram Monserrate from office. The state senator from Queens, convicted of manhandling his girlfriend, was shamed, convicted, and bounced by an overwhelming majority of his peers, who believe that, even at the Albany clown college, a man who commits domestic violence gives his fellows a bad name. But he shall not be moved.

Monserrate, who astonishingly compares himself to murdered civil-rights workers, has engaged lawyer Norman Siegel, a man who never saw a laughable discrimination struggle he couldn’t exploit, to fight for his job. Rather than step aside like a man, Hiram won’t clean out his office until he’s dragged out like a child.

This is the caliber of your elected officials.

‘Climate’ credibility cooling off

The forecast for planet Earth this winter calls for an extra dose of rain, snow, sleet, ice and pestilence. But according to confounded warmingologists, this actually proves Al Gore right! Throw away that shovel and buy a bikini. Those who pray at the altar of global cooking once said unusual heat was a sign of climate change. Now, warming cultists hold up ice and snow and freezing rain as proof-positive that, any day now, we’ll be living all year in a Miami August.

Until they make up their minds, I’m hanging on to my snow boots.

Presidents Day has lost its luster

Happy Presidents Day.

Did you know that the over-commercialized festival of white sales, school closings, bank shutdowns and government idleness started as a day to honor our first president, George Washington? Then Abe Lincoln was added to the mix.

But instead of evoking an opportunity to meditate on the richness of American culture, Presidents Day has devolved into an extended weekend in which nongovernment working parents scramble to find a place to park the kids, ski resorts are handed another excuse to overcharge, and public servants get yet another day off to play.